


Urthalis

by Lunaeya



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-02 01:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12717153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunaeya/pseuds/Lunaeya
Summary: The eldest child of the Cousland family and the pride of her parents, she only hopes to become the Teyrna her parents have raised her to be.She did not ask for all of this.





	1. Of First Buds and Cold Sea Air

A gloved hand reaches out to hold the newly formed bud in a gentle palm. Spring has arrived in Highever it seems, Ilanna muses to herself as she pauses in the gardens.

Though the plants are beginning to form the beginnings of flowers, a few snowflakes still drift lazily through the air to catch in thick dark eyelashes.

“My lady,” the gentle voice draws Ilanna from her stupor, her handmaiden Colette weaves through the foliage behind her.

“Your father insisted on your arrival, _without delay._ ”

Collette shivers in the presence of the sea wind; she is a petite woman only a few years younger than her mistress with dark hair and large doe eyes. The daughter of a Southern Bann, she is accustomed to milder winters despite her years now spent in Highever.

Ilanna gives the ghost of a smile at the reminder, “Let us be off then,” before continuing her stroll through the gardens and back towards the main hall.

“My lady,” a soldier greets respectfully in passing, and Ilanna dips her head politely in return as she and Collette move towards the main courtyard.  Despite the dark hood of her dress pulled up over her head, Ilanna is impossible to miss as she towers over the dark haired woman constantly at her side.

A loud bark echoes off of the stone walls followed by a familiar yell and Collette sighs from behind her, “It is Nan, my lady.”

 Ilanna twists a hand into her skirts to keep her boots from catching the hem and redirects course towards the kitchen her pace now hastened.  

Collette releases an audible gasp as they enter the warmth of the kitchen, the heady scent of spiced stew hanging heavy in the air. Another bark from towards the back of the room and a few servants scuttle nervously outside the door while an older woman is furiously ordering them back to the tables where ingredients in need of dicing lay discarded.

The gray haired woman whirls around to face Ilanna her hands on hips and a scowl across her weathered face.

“M’lady,” Nan greets in a cross tone her voice hoarse from yelling, wiping flour covered hands across her dark apron, “Your _dog_ , it’s not becoming of a Teyrna to have such a-“

The woman’s lecture is halted by the door of the larder flinging wide and the animal in question bounding excitedly towards his mistress. Ilanna leans down to greet the beast, a mass of carefully bred corded muscle.

Fell pushes against her legs eagerly, tiny nub of a tail waggling gleefully as her fingers scratch behind his ears.

“I’m sorry for the trouble Nan,” Ilanna murmurs softly, “The winter has been long, I swear once some of this frost melts he will be out of your hair.”

Nan sighs and folds her arms across her chest, “Aye, see to it then. Now go on, we have actual work to do.”

The rest of their walk is relatively uneventful, the bailey’s bustle with activity as soldiers spar and run drill formations.

The two guards posted by the entrance hastily push the doors open upon their approach and Ilanna pushes her hood back from her face as they enter the warmth of the hall. A fire crackles loudly in the hearth behind the receiving table and her father stands solemnly in before it, his hands folded carefully behind his back.

“Father,” she greets warmly as she approaches and Fell leaps excitedly towards him. Bryce Cousland turns to meet his daughter’s gaze the corners of his eyes crinkling at the sight of her.

The Teyrn of Highever is an imposing figure. He is a tall man – his height further emphasized by his impeccable posture - courtesy of his military background. His hair has become grayer, she cannot help but notice, and some of that color has strayed to his beard as well.

“Pup,” he returns with a smile, and he sweeps her into a hug. Though he is long past his days of command, the man is still fit as a fiddle and still refuses to travel anywhere without a sword at his hip.

Bryce squeezes her arms as he steps back to look at her, “Dear girl, you grow more beautiful by the hour, I suppose that is more your mother’s doing than mine.”

Ilanna smiles broadly in response, “How was the journey? How do the Arl and Bann of Redcliffe fair?”

“They are well and send their warmest-“, he is interrupted by the door towards the living quarters swinging wide.

"Sister!" a high voice cries and a flash of chestnut dances across the room to nearly bowl Ilanna over.

"Celia," she greets her sister warmly, kissing the top of her head.

Bryce smiles brightly at his two daughters, he and Eleanor had worried at first when Celia was born. The pregnancy had taken its toll on the Teyrna, and the midwife had given her a poor prognosis on her ability to carry another child to term.

They did not allow it to be setback in their succession planning, however, and instead began to shift Ilanna's lesson plans from needlework and painting to diplomacy and the art of war. The young woman had easily proved her capability, and pushed to earn the trust of her father's army by taking up swordsplay, archery, horseback riding and hunting.

In her short sixteen years, Illanna had reworked her destiny and reshaped her role.  She was no bargaining chip for Highever, rather a thoughtful leader and fearless warrior – still with much to learn.

Ilanna is tall and slender, her hair an ashen blonde that now cascades to her waist, often pulled into a thick braid and blue eyes dark like midnight. The woman refuses to wear the delicate shoes that noblewomen often adorn, trading them instead for a solid pair of high boots that are easily concealed beneath dark dresses. They have raised the future Teyrna to be a practical woman, and she easily shrugs off the frivolity of court when she is able.  Bryce could not be more proud of the woman she has become; she is a Cousland - through and through.

Celia is a stark contrast to her sister; taking after Eleanor's side she is petite and dainty with a head of dark brunette hair. It takes the girl hours to get dressed in the mornings, her face painted with bright rouge and eyes adorned in colors that complement the green hues. No interest in politics or battle strategy she instead occupies her time with dancing lessons and needlepoint taking pleasure in the trivial aspects of nobility, lavish parties and mingling with ladies of the court.

"How was the road, dear sister?" Ilanna asks gently after removing herself from the embrace, pulling her leather gloves off to fend off the heat of the room.

"Positively,  _dreadful,"_  Celia whines dramatically, Ilanna catches sight of her father rolling his eyes over her shoulder. "The frost has melted in the bannorn, and the  _mud_ , Ilanna, you would not  _believe_  the mud. I went through nearly all my dresses!"

Ilanna fights the urge to laugh at the petty complaints, "Then I'm certain you are glad to be home."

"Without a doubt!" she sighs joyfully, "Though I must say, the warmer climate suits me.. I would look rather fetching in the brighter southern colors.." Celia looks to her father with an audacious smile.

Bryce lips smooth to a serious line though his tone is still light, "That's enough, Celia, off with you now dear girl. Your sister and I have matters to discuss."

Celia turns back to her sister, and plants a kiss on Ilanna's cheek, "We will catch up later.." she whispers before dashing through the door towards the living quarters, a whirl of purple skirts.

"The death of me.." Bryce muses aloud in her wake and Ilanna cannot help the laugh that escapes her mouth.

"She is a silly girl, Father, but still young.. she will mature."

"From your lips to the Maker's ear, Pup," he hums in a thoughtful tone, "How did things fair in my absence?"

Ilanna moves to set her gloves on the table, "Well enough, I received complaints and requests from the bannorn twice this past fortnight, it was nothing I couldn't handle."

Another broad smile breaks across the Teyrn's face, "And your mother was worried.."

Ilanna sighs, "She  _always_  worries, Father. Still you did not need to send her away."

"It had to be done, Pup, were she here people would defer to her. You needed this to showcase some of that wisdom we get to see from within the castle walls to those who live outside of them."

"I know Father, not that she needs an excuse to attend Lady Landra's Spring Salon. It is an  **event**  as I recall."

Bryce laughs again, "No doubt, Pup, she should be back in a week's time. That will give us a little less than a month of preparation."

Ilanna cocks a curious eyebrow, "Preparation for?"

Bryces' mouth sets into that solemn line once again, "King Maric will be coming to stay in Highever for a time, Ilanna and we must be prepared to properly receive them."

Ilanna eyes widen and her mouth runs dry, and Bryce places a hand on her shoulder, "I must debrief our knights, but see to it that Nan and the kitchen staff are informed of the King’s visit. We will likely need to reach out to the lords in the bannorn to properly supply ourselves," he instructs with a reassuring look before departing out the main hall doors flanked by two guards.

The hall is quiet for a moment before an excited squeal causes her to jump, whirling around towards the source of the noise, sliding a hand behind her shoulder and grasping for the blade that was not present.

Collette holds her hands high and waves them defensively, "Apologies, my lady! I forget myself! It's just - a  _royal_  visit!"

Ilanna dismisses the apology with a hand, before moving towards the living quarters with Fell on her heels, "Back to the kitchen, Collette," she calls from over her shoulder before glancing down at the war hound beside her, "Nan will be positively  _thrilled_  we are back."

-

"Connor Guerrin, sister!" Celia is swooning from her seat on the window sill, "He's asking after me you know!"

Ilanna leans against the doorframe with arms folded beneath her chest, "You do realize Lady Isolde is Orlesian? Father would never allow it."

The younger woman glowers, "You're no fun."

The young woman’s disappointed sigh earns a shrug from Ilanna as she moves to sit on the bench at the foot of the large poster bed, "Did father tell you about the King?"

Celia produces a noise reminiscent of Collette's squeal, "Of  _course_! Did you hear who will be accompanying him?"

Ilanna arches a delicate brow accompanied by a curious glance.

"The Prince!" Celia jitters excitedly hands clasped tightly in desperate hope against her chest.

"Now there's a match Father would approve of," Ilanna smiles and Celia gives another high pitched squeal.  "Too bad he is already betrothed.." Ilanna murmurs, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Celia scowls darkly before folding her arms over her chest, "Spoilsport."

"Realist," Ilanna corrects gently before gathering her skirts to leave.

"I suppose this means you'll be attending my dancing lessons the next few weeks?" the younger woman suggests cheekily and Ilanna allows an unladylike huff to escape her mouth.

"Yes,  _dear_  sister. Do try not to step on my toes this time."

 


	2. Of Kings and Princes

The castle awakens long before dawn, and from her balcony Ilanna can see servants, soldiers and maids bustling through the alleys.

Collette is at her side, running a comb through her thick blonde locks freeing it from tangles. Spring has officially blossomed over Highever and the deep frost has finally begun to melt.

With a gentle nudge, Collette leads her to the vanity at the far side of her bedroom, easing the young woman into her seat and pulling the full length of her hair back over her shoulders.

"Would you prefer it up off your neck my lady?"

Ilanna hums thoughtfully, up would be refreshing to keep the warm sun from overheating her. She does not get the chance to respond before the door swings open.

"Wear it down," Eleanor instructs as she sweeps into the room, dressed in one of her finest gowns. The deep emerald of the dress brings out the jade of her eyes and she knows her mother made the choice deliberately. There is no doubt Celia has made a similar selection.

Eleanor moves up behind them and Collette steps nervously aside to allow the Teyrna room. Ilanna tilts her head back slightly as her handmaiden moves to begin twisting a few strands around the sides to form several braids that she intends to join in the back. The handmaiden's fingers have grown much gentler over the last year and Ilanna is thankful she does not tug at her scalp quite as much as she used to.

Eleanor sits beside her daughter on the bench and sighs deeply as they peer into their reflections. Though her hair is now a faded, graying brunette, Eleanor shows few other signs of age. Her eyes crinkle just a bit on the edges and she does have soft lines around her mouth from a lifetime of joyous laughter. The woman’s high cheekbones and dark eyelashes still emphasize her beautiful face. Eleanor is a petite woman, but muscled and lean, she still looks every bit the raider she was raised to be. Though she has settled into a life of child-rearing and politicking, it was actually Eleanor’s idea to train Ilanna in the art of combat.

“There may come a time,” she had snapped fiercely at her husband - hesitant to allow their daughter to wield blades, “That as a Teyrna she must take up arms to defend her people. She must be afforded the opportunity to learn.”

The Teyrna's hair is pulled into an elaborate hairstyle, swept high behind her head and not a strand appears out of place. It is hard to imagine her slinging blades across Orlesian warships dressed as she is now in heavy skirts and finery.

"The day has come my dear, are we ready?"

Ilanna smiles softly at her mother's reflection, "Of course."

"Then let us be off," Eleanor hums as she leans to press a kiss to her daughters cheek. "With haste sweet girl, I cannot have both of my daughters locked away all morning."

-

They stand in the courtyard in a receiving line, soldiers lining the entrance of the gates before them in an organized formation.  

A fanfare announces the approach followed by the thundering of horse hooves as the regimen enters the courtyard. The Theirin red heraldry is draped over every horse in the company and they slow their mounts as they pass through the gates.

The Highever soldiers raise fists to their chests as they all take a knee, Eleanor and Ilanna both bowing their heads as the first of the horses pass onto the cobblestone and the eldest daughter has to nudge Celia to remind her to do the same.

"Bryce!" the booming voice exclaims as the horses are halted and a servants runs to grab the reins. "Get up, you fool!"

From the corner of her eye she sees the King pull her father to his feet. "It has been too long my friend," Maric greets, the deep baritone of his voice reverberating off of the stone walls.

The men embrace briefly and Maric claps the Teyrn on the shoulder before pulling back to gaze at the Teyrna, “Eleanor, do you _age_?”

She laughs loudly at the comment as Maric pulls her in for a warm hug, “As gracefully as I can manage, your Highness.”

“So formal, there is no need for it, dear friend!”

Maric turns to move to Ilanna, and tips her chin with gloved fingers.

“Your eldest?” Maric questions curiously, glancing over to Bryce.

“Barely sixteen, My King. Ilanna, heiress to the Teyrnir and Castle Cousland.”

The King pulls back to study her and Ilanna drops to a low curtsey, bowing her head and glancing up demurely at Maric. The man looks every bit a King should, tall and broad-shouldered with silvered blonde hair slicked back and falling to his shoulders. Though the lines on his face belie his age, he is still an incredibly handsome man.

“Lastly - my youngest, Celia, I believe last you saw her she was just a babe.”

“Maker, when did we get so damned old!” the man exclaims loudly and the men laugh from behind him.

The clatter of hooves echoes through the courtyard from behind them and all present drop back to their respectful posturing, “Ah, Bryce, you must forgive his manners. My son, Cailan.”

“Apologies for my tardy arrival, Father,” the younger man announces as he slides from his horses saddle and lands on sure feet. “Teyrn Bryce, it is good to see you again. And you Teyrna Eleanor.”

Maric nods towards the girls, and Cailan moves to stand before Ilanna who is again postured in a low curtsey. She tilts her chin to get a better look at him from beneath thick, dark lashes.

The man who stands there is easily the most handsome man she ever laid eyes upon. Tall as his father with broad shoulders, a barreled chest and an expertly trained physique, obvious despite the golden armor plating that adorns him. His face is defined by a chiseled jawline covered in well-trimmed facial hair, Queen Rowan’s bright gray eyes and the signature Theirin nose. He has grown his brilliant blonde hair to brush the tops of his shoulders as the King has and it is slightly mussed from the helmet now tucked beneath a large bicep.

As she rises from her formal greeting, the Prince extends a large palm towards her and Ilanna reaches out to place a delicate hand in his. He pulls it and he drops his head to brush full lips against the knuckles. Ilanna’s eyes fall to watch the gesture more closely but as she looks back up she realizes his gaze has never left hers and her heart flutters wildly in her chest.

“Your name, my lady?” he murmurs, hot breath sweeping over the skin of her fingers as he withdraws a bit, still holding her hand in his own.

“Ilanna, your Grace,” she replies shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks to flash a row of brilliant ivory teeth and she cannot help the ghost of a smile creeping across her face in response.

Ilanna is not sure how long they’ve been standing there staring at one another, but when Maric clears his throat loudly the two to jolt apart. Cailan moves over to greet Celia who fumbles awkwardly over her words giving Ilanna enough time to ease her nerves, smoothing her skirt with a shaking hand, and trying not to look back at the man with whom she just found an electric connection.

Bryce and Maric stride together towards the doors to the main hall talking and laughing loudly and Cailan trails behind closely. 

Eleanor and her daughters slowly follow the men, hanging back far enough to gain a small semblance of privacy despite the mass of soldiers and servants moving to unpack trunks and drive muddied hoof prints from the cobblestone.

-

The hall is much fuller that first night than it normally is, though the King and Prince did not travel with a large escort. The Kingsguard, a group of six expertly trained knights, sworn to the King’s protection and a company of nearly twenty men – the Teryn has invited all of the soldiers and knights stationed within Castle Cousland to dine amongst the men of Denerim.

The kitchens have outdone themselves twice over. Honeyed hams and roasted druffalo adorn every table accompanied by boiled vegetables and freshly baked wheat loaves. Wine and ale overflows in the hall and the ambient noise of soldiers raucously laughing and arguing amongst themselves threatens to drown out the sound of the minstrels and their lutes near the back of the room.

King Maric sits at the center of the head table, throwing back his head with a laugh as he and the Teyrn recount some old tale from the war and memories of their youth. Eleanor sits beside her husband, to the left of the King while Cailan sits directly to his right, Ilanna and Celia beside him.

“I cannot remember the last time I went on a hunt!” Maric muses in that deep, booming voice, a hand pulling a full goblet to his lips.

“My daughter is quite the huntress,” Bryce starts, leaning forward slightly attempting to catch a glimpse of his eldest past the King and Prince, “I would have fallen out of practice ages ago were it not for her insistence.”

“You’ve taught Ilanna to lead a hunt?” Maric asks incredulously before shaking his head and laughing loudly again, “I should have expected nothing less from you and Eleanor.”

“You hunt?” The Prince asks, turning to look at Ilanna curiously as he lifts his goblet to take another swig of wine.

“Hunting is the true key to diplomacy,” she shrugs in response feigning coolness, “Or so I have been taught.”

“You may have to join us then sometime while we are here,” the Prince suggests in a jovial tone, the deep baritone of his voice reverberating pleasantly in Ilanna’s ears.

The young woman cannot fight the foolish smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth at the suggestion.

“I would like that, your Grace.”


	3. Of Hunting Trips and Improper Conversations

It has been several weeks since the arrival of the King and Prince.

The sun has barely dusted to top of the mountain peaks when Ilanna moves through the doorway to the courtyard. Mist hovers just above the ground and the cool morning air hangs heavy and wet, thick droplets dusting the tips of the grassy fields outside the castle walls.

Ilanna has traded in her dresses for leather breeches with a laced blouse and a close cropped leather hunting jacket. Her hair is tied tightly behind her head in a thick braid, some of the shorter strands falling into her eyes.

They've chosen to disregard the morning gathering where they would meet over breakfast to discuss what Jairren, the castle's highest standing huntsman to go over the quarry he had tracked for them and have instead chosen to conduct it within the gates just before leaving.

Said huntsman is in the courtyard already along with the band of guards sent to accompany the hunting party, and he turns to greet her warmly as he adjusts the straps of his gelding's saddle. 

The older man smiles a mouthful of crooked teeth and she returns the gesture as she moves to the weapons rack arranged outside, already packed tightly with expertly made arrows. Ilanna begins to pick up her bow to sling it over her shoulder when a voice stops her.

"My lady," a low voice calls to her from across the cobblestone courtyard and she turns to eye its beholder. Prince Cailan strides out dressed in dark breeches and a light tunic, a leather jerkin layered over-top strains slightly against his broad chest.

Ilanna's mouth runs dry at the sight of him; this man has a way of disarming her. In his presence she transforms from the carefully composed woman she has worked so hard to become into a silly slack jawed girl.

"My Prince, good morning," she greets in the most even tone she can muster, and she cannot help her surprise when the King and her father do not follow out behind him.

As if he can read her mind, Cailan moves to the weapons rack beside her and grabs a sword, adjusting the strap around his waist and sheathing the blade at his hip. 

_An interesting choice of hunting weapon_ , she thinks but would never voice aloud.

"I thought perhaps it could just be the two of us, this morning, my lady. If it is not too bold."

Ilanna balks a bit at first, thinking of how inappropriate it might appear for her to be hunting alone with the Prince, the  _betrothed_ Prince. But she remembers there will be a hunting party alongside them and perhaps it will not appear as suspicious as she fears. Deeper down, she is thankful for an opportunity to spend time with the Prince that isn't over dinner or in a closely supervised situation, their conversations flow easily and the two get along well enough. 

"Not too bold, My Lord,” she stammers, still surprised.

They move towards the huntsman who has gathered his maps on a makeshift table, and they lean over the plans curiously. 

"A hart, Your Majesty, is the quarry for today. Large thing it is, beauty, nearly fourteen points," a dirt laden finger points to a spot on the map a few miles South of the castle, just past the line of the forest on the outskirts of one of the massive farms. 

Cailan rubs gloved hands together with an eager smile, "Any others with him?"

"No, My Lord, just the one."

"Excellent," the Prince beams, before moving over to the massive destrier he had ridden upon their arrival. The stallion’s coal-black coat gleams despite the lack of sunlight and his long mane braided closely along its neck and its tail only partway down. The horse shifts its weight nervously and crunches at the bit in its mouth as Cailan runs a hand along the horses’ thick neck, he has to be fifteen hands high.

“He is magnificent,” Ilanna hums thoughtfully and the Prince gives her a bright smile.

“Goliath,” Cailan chuckles to himself, “He’s still large, but not as huge as I once thought, I suppose.”

She laughs and walks over to run a hand along his muzzle, and Goliath pushes against her hand and snorts softly. He may not seem so large to the Prince but to her he is still enormous.

The grooms have brought Ilanna her courser, a beautiful silvery dappled mare with dark stockings named Fleur. The horse prances on anxious feet, it is obvious that the mounts gathered in the courtyard are aware of why they are assembled and their tension is palpable.

A loud bark breaks the air and the horses, used to the presence of hunting dogs; do not allow it to spook them. Fell bounds through an alleyway off of the main courtyard and into the clearing, excitedly jumping up against Ilanna. She smiles brightly as she rubs his massive chin.

"You can come too, love," she murmurs at the beast as he pushes off of her and trots excitedly around Fleur who nickers softly at the warhound. Ilanna takes the reins from the groom and Fleur pushes her lips against the woman’s cheek blowing a puff of air and letting the fuzz tickle her mistress. Gently, she presses a kiss to the mares’ nose and gives her a small smile.

Cailan moves to stand beside her, dismissing the groom and offering his hand, though she does not need the assistance she is grateful for the offer. She tries her best to hide her blush as she settles into the saddle and Cailan moves to climb atop his own mount.

"Shall we?" he asks as Goliath saunters towards the gates to the open road and Ilanna smiles shyly in reply moving beside him. They take off at a leisurely gait closely flanked by their entourage and Jairren giving directions from behind them.

-

The chase is on.

Hooves on packed dirt are like thunder now as Ilanna and Cailan gain on the massive hart and Fell moves in to direct the beast towards the clearing where they intend to finish the kill. 

Despite the pace Fleur has set, Ilanna has her bow in hand now, and she leans back as the low branches subside, pulling an arrow from the pack behind her in a fluid motion. Without looking she nocks the arrow and draws the bowstring tight until fingers rest beneath her chin, the goose feather fletchings tickling her cheek.

A few heartbeats pass and Ilanna stabilizes her torso as Fell darts at the beast. The stag pulls left - hard, his massive leg forward, moving just enough.

 Ilanna halts her breath and the world is still for but a moment as her fingers loose the arrow. The beast heaves a mangled cry as the arrow sinks into the tender flesh behind the leg, the animal now flailing wildly and charging towards the clearing.

The rest of the hunting party is there waiting to corral the hart into a smaller area, enough to allow Cailan the killing blow. The stag collapses on its side as it slides against the grass and the Prince leaps from his horse onto the ground in front of it.

The Prince is merciful and does not prolong the act, sliding his blade from the sheath at his side and slicing the animal's neck open in one swift motion.

The men cheer, as expected and as Cailan walks towards Goliath, they move in to begin the process of taking the beast apart to be brought back to the castle. The Prince pulls a cloth from his side to wipe the blade clean before sheathing it again at his hip.

"A fine kill, my Lord," Ilanna compliments politely as Cailan climbs back onto his mount, and a bark distracts them. Her eyes twinkle with mirth as Fell moves on to chase an errant dragonfly around the clearing. 

"It was mostly your doing," Cailan says with a smile, moving his stallion to stand beside Fleur. 

Ilanna finds herself once again admiring him, his sharp chin is shaded in the slightest shadow of un-trimmed beard. His hair is tidy and knotted against his nape, a few strands fallen lose in front of his eyes. He is truly the most handsome man she has ever laid eyes upon. Cailan turns his head towards her and he catches her, as she has him many times the past few weeks. 

It has never been more than stolen glances, she is certain he feels the heat simmering between them as well, so they maintain enough distance that neither are able to cross the line of proper etiquette. 

"Shall we head back, my lady?" he asks with the slightest of smirks and she chides herself internally at the smug satisfaction her lingering stare must have given him.

"Yes, your Grace."

-

Preparations are underway for the final gathering before the King and Prince depart Highever, and as it was the first day they arrived, the castle buzzes with activity. 

Once they arrive back at the courtyard and place their feet onto the cobblestone ground Collette is at her mistress’ side, looking frazzled.

Ilanna feels the insistent tug at her elbow and despite her lack of skirts gives the most elegant curtsy she can manage. 

"It was a pleasure, your Grace."

That trademark smile again as he brushes those delinquent strands from his eyes once more, "I will see you this evening?"

It is silly for him to ask and the teasing lilt in his tone gives away the joke.

"I would not miss it, my lord," she replies playfully.

Cailan regards her warmly and gives a polite nod to Collette who now pulls hard against the fabric, and finally Ilanna allows the smaller woman to drag her towards the living quarters. 

"Hunting with the Prince, my lady? Alone?"

Ilanna cannot miss the suspicious tone in her hand maiden's voice, and she yanks her arm from the girls grasp with an indignant look. 

"We were hardly alone, Collette. Have you ever seen a noble hunting party without at least four members of the royal guard?" she snaps in annoyance and Collette shrinks back in fear. 

"A-apologies my lady, I did not mean to insinuate-"

Ilanna holds a hand up to halt the stammering, realizing her quick temper will implicate her feelings more than any action could.

"It is fine, Collette," she hums in her coolest tone as they enter her bedchambers, "I know your intentions were not to imply anything inappropriate."

The young woman nods eagerly as her mistress sits, and she assists in the removal of her tall boots, tiny fingers deftly unlacing the front enough that Ilanna can withdraw her feet from their confinement.

Servants move hurriedly from within her bedchambers with pails filled with hot water for her bath, and another stokes the coals beneath the stone tub. It is not long before the water fills the room with lazy steam. 

Another female servant rushes over to assist Collette eagerly and between the two, Ilanna is unceremoniously undressed and led into the stone tub. The heat of the water turns her skin pinkish and the cold castle air contrasted with the steaming water sends a ripple of goose flesh down her arms.

Eleanor sweeps into the room shortly after that, looking satisfied at the site of Ilanna being tended to and she has no doubt the sense of urgency is at her mother's behest.

Collette sits on a stool behind Ilanna's head and pours lavender scented oils into her soaked tresses, fingers delicately massaging the soap and oils into the mass of hair. Eleanor takes a graceful seat at the tubs edge, taking in the site of her daughter carefully. 

"I take it this morning went off without a hitch?" she asks coyly and Ilanna gives her an indignant look. 

"It was just a hunt, though I was surprised when neither father nor the King joined us."

"It was at the Prince's insistence," Eleanor replies quietly.

Ilanna gives her mother a look that suggests this may not be the time or  _company_  for such a conversation. She is thankful for Eleanor's gift of perception as she places a hand on her daughter's shoulder. 

"With haste then, darling, there is only a few hours before the festivities, and it should not be long before some guests start arriving. Once you're dressed," she gestures over to the ruffled navy gown her mother has had made for her, "We greet our adoring public."

-

Breathing is near impossible. The corset strings are pulled tight and she feels the top of the fabric digging into her ribs and internally she curses her mother for choosing a dress that requires the contraption. Ilanna does not need a corset to cinch her waist, but rather to pull her rather inadequate cleavage into a shape that better suits the extravagant dresses of court.

The gown sweeps low enough in the front that the corset serves its purpose; the dark navy velvet is embroidered with silver, splitting in the front to reveal light colored skirts underneath. The sleeves are long and broaden to bells near the bottom and her hair tumbles down her back in delicate waves. Several thick are strands are pulled behind her ear and a few tiny stalks of baby's breath adorn the pin that holds them there.

"Ilanna!" Eleanor gasps with delight as she catches her daughter entering the hallways towards the main hall, "You look positively divine."

"This is too much mother," the woman chastises, tugging at the heavy skirt, "When will I ever wear this again?"

"When you are the Teyrna, dear girl, dresses of finer make than you adorn yourself with now will be commonplace," the woman chides gently before her attention is drawn elsewhere. 

"Celia, darling – you are beautiful as always!" Eleanor is radiating pride at the sight of her two daughters, and she leans over to kiss her youngest on the cheek. 

Celia is dressed in a brilliant cerulean gown made of a similar heavy fabric; and the young woman stands slightly taller than normal with a pair of delicate slippers adorning her feet. Dark hair falls straight down her shoulders curled into delicate ringlets. 

"Let us be off then sweet daughters, your father would be better served greeting our guests with beautiful women at his side."

The hall is filled to bursting with noble lords and ladies of the surrounding bannorn who have come to pay their respects to the King and Prince before their return to Denerim. They are so busy receiving guests that she hardly catches a glimpse of the royal entourage and instead busies herself with speaking to the nobles and entertaining friends of her father. 

Until, finally- there he is.

Cailan is talking to Bann Teagan of Rainesfere who has traveled far to receive them and though he is still immersed in conversation, the Prince manages to glance up and meet her gaze.

That smile again and Ilanna's knees go weak.

He gestures towards the doorway to the gardens with the slightest of nods and she only replies to it with the faintest smile.

It is cool outside, and this far north, the stars glitter brightly against the dark blanket of the sky. Ilanna realizes now why the heavy fabric of the elaborate dress will benefit her here, should she ever choose to hold a celebration on a cold spring night.

Collette has followed her, and Ilanna halts her with a soft, "Please stay," and gestures towards the entryway. It is a few minutes before Cailan emerges through the hallway and like her, he signals for the two guardsmen to hang back beside Collette who wrings her hands nervously. They position themselves on either side of the entryway and it's clear the Prince has requested a degree of privacy.

It is improper, them meeting like this, an unmarried noblewoman and a betrothed Prince. But it is his last night in Highever, and Ilanna cannot deny herself one more quiet conversation between them.

Cailan extends an arm to her and she graciously accepts, wrapping delicate fingers around his bicep. They walk in comfortable silence through the garden along the stone path towards the wrought iron gazebo towards the back, overlooking the shoreline.

She releases his arm as they cross underneath the domed rooftop, moving to rest her hands against the railing and he leans against it beside her. They allow the quiet to hang between them a few moments more. They take in the sounds of the shore lapping at the water's edge and Ilanna breathes deeply of the cold, salty sea air.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs quietly, just loud enough for her to hear and she feels her cheeks burn under his gaze.

"You are too kind, your Grace."

"Cailan," he says softly as he looks back out at the water, "Please."

Ilanna tries to shape the name on her tongue, but it sounds incorrect and foreign on her lips.

"Cailan," she repeats softly aloud and it earns her an approving look.

"Have you ever been to Denerim, my lady?" he asks curiously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Ilanna," she corrects, mimicking his tone and he laughs that deep, booming Theirin laugh and it nearly makes her jump.

"Have you ever been to Denerim, Ilanna?" he repeats, and the sound of that deep, smooth voice forming her name sends a thrill through her. Cailan pushes off from the railing and turns his body to face her; stormy gray eyes are bright and clear against his face - illuminated only by moonlight.

"No, though I would love to see it," she replies thoughtfully, "I've been told that when I eventually become Teyrna, trips to the capital will be a regular occurrence. I've heard the summers are beautiful."

"As well as the springs," Cailan beams "And there are so many trees, in autumn, it is like a painting." 

Ilanna cannot help the dreamy smile as she turns to face him, "And the winters?"

Cailan chuckles to himself, "There is so much snow, it does not melt for weeks, but it is far warmer than this," he gestures at the air around them.

"I'm partial to cold winters myself," she replies coyly, "Cousland blood and all, I look best pale and dressed in heavy furs."

That laugh again, it's infectious and she cannot help but laugh quietly along with him.

"Of that I have no doubt," he chuckles before his face grows a little more serious, "You should visit the capital.. before you are Teyrna."

"Oh?" 

Ilanna regards him curiously and his gaze wanders off into the water before he meets hers again, his voice is now a low rumble and she feels her knees go weaker at the change, "These last few weeks, I have found myself enjoying your company, immensely. Our dinner conversations have been the highlight of my time in the Teyrnir."

Her heart flutters wildly against her rib cage and she is at a loss for words, her mouth slightly agape in surprise, pleasant, but wholly improper.

"Your Grac-"

"Cailan," he corrects again, in a gentle tone.

"Cailan," she starts again, swallowing nervously, "I- we cannot be having this conversation."

"Do you not feel the same?" he asks softly and she feels a tug in her chest as she traces his jawline with her eyes, his tone is almost wounded. 

"My feelings are irrelevant, my Lord, it is inappropriate for us to be having this conversation alone together, setting aside the fact that you are engag-"

"To a child," Cailan interjects before correcting himself, "Not a child but she may as well be. She is your sister's age and less mature."

"While that may be, the fact of the matter is that the engagement stands. Anora Mac Tir is going to be your wife, at some point and I have duties here. Now is hardly the time, or the place to be considering our new found  _feelings-_ "

Her argument is cut short by a gentle hand brushing against her cheek and sweeping a stray strand of ashen hair behind her ear. Breath stalls in her lungs as Cailan moves closer to her, their bodies’ only inches apart and he looks down at her, a tender expression across his chiseled face.

"Why?" he asks quietly, "Why not now?"

It as though she has forgotten herself now, under the stars with the Crown Prince of Ferelden, the only sound in the air being the waves crashing against the shore and their soft breathing. She wets her dry lips with a nervous tongue trying to find the right words. 

This is wrong, this is wrong in every way and yet it feels somehow perfectly, unequivocally  _right_.

"I- I don't know.." she whispers and that is all he needs, leaning down close enough that she can feel warm breath grazing her lips, the scent of mint and oakmoss floating in the air heady and hot - 

"Ilanna!"

The voice rings loud and clear as a bell in the cool night air, and the two jolt away from each other as though they have been branded with a hot iron. 

"My lord," she whispers in an apologetic tone, curtsying quickly before turning and lifting the hem of her dress to dash across the courtyard to the entryway before anyone catches them.

A glance over her shoulder earns her the sight of the Prince standing alone and bathed in moonlight beneath the gazebo staring after her and looking utterly forlorn.


End file.
